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Today the black clinic was busy.
The chaos began because the semester-based universities had just entered their three-month summer break. Bored college kids started throwing parties, which naturally attracted dealers selling "vitamins."
Then two rival gangs both insisted the party location was their turf.
And so—late at night—they started shooting.
Anyone not dead on the spot and with connections was dragged to the Fixer. As long as someone wasn't instantly killed, sending them to the Fixer guaranteed survival.
As for why they shot each other at midnight but only delivered wounded people in the morning?
Because these guys are cheapskates. They prefer saving money by doing their own patch-ups first.
The Fixer's life-saving fee was already dirt cheap—ridiculously cheap for street people. Hospitals not only cost a fortune but also call the cops. The Fixer was incomparable by those standards.
But for street thugs who would love to point a gun at the Fixer's head and rap-threaten him into working for free, even cheap life-saving fees were still money. They'd always prefer free service.
After a few failed attempts to freeload, the gangsters developed their own system for deciding who deserved to be sent to the Fixer.
Gunshot wound?
Dig out the bullet, stop the bleeding—what's the big deal? That's just Tuesday for them.
If they could handle it themselves, they wouldn't send anyone to the Fixer.
If someone's wounds were too severe, and the guy didn't have connections inside the gang?
Then he could die for all they cared.
But if the wounded man was someone's brother or cousin, and was too injured to treat yet too stubborn to die—only then would they drag him to the Fixer.
After this "filtering," the Fixer still had over a dozen cases today. Nearly a thousand dollars in cash income in one morning.
One could imagine how many people got shot.
By the time Henry returned to his rented place, it was already afternoon.
Luckily he had prepped Katie's lunch before leaving; otherwise the house would have been demolished.
He stopped by the fresh produce market and brought home a pile of fruits and vegetables.
Running a black clinic had one major drawback: although it earned money, it was all dirty cash that couldn't legally enter a bank. So he could only slowly burn through it with transactions that accepted cash.
This made Henry's food spending… impressively extravagant.
As one of the world's major agricultural exporters, the U.S. had plenty of produce.
But not all of it was clean, green, or safe.
Take GM crops—reviled by many. They were engineered mainly for yield, durability, and pest resistance.
Claims of "enhanced nutrition"?
Hard to say they're outright lies, but let's just call it statistical gymnastics.
And "quality" mostly meant appearance—bigger, prettier, better-looking produce.
Actual nutritional value? Often worse than heirloom varieties.
Then came the most American part:
Get a bunch of research institutions to endorse it, legislate it into acceptance, force standards globally, then dump it onto the world market—especially onto the plates of the poor.
…At least the ABCD grain giants were smart enough not to literally spray chemicals onto food. That kind of trick gets exposed too easily.
The American method:
Know something is problematic, but hide behind massive research backing so no one can prove causality → then it must be "safe" → then they sell it everywhere.
So even in the U.S., supermarkets were filled with high-tech mystery produce destined for low-income households.
Truly green, pollution-free produce was expensive.
And even then, buying the pricey stuff didn't guarantee you were getting the real deal.
For average blue- and white-collar folks, even wanting to eat healthy was difficult.
If Henry didn't have black-market income, even basic quality produce would be out of reach for him—never mind actual high-end specialty items.
His Kryptonian nose helped him occasionally sniff out gems among the trash apples, but that wasn't reliable.
So when he needed to buy expensive stuff, he bought it. At least he could guarantee he was getting the real deal.
As Henry returned home with a paper bag full of produce, old Gary was chatting with someone on the street corner.
Seeing Henry get out of the car, he waved loudly:
"Henry! You're back!"
"Afternoon, Gary."
"I hear this is your friend?" Gary said, pointing at the person beside him.
The person turned—and of course it was a familiar face.
Henry smiled. "Charlize. Fabio. You're house-hunting all the way out here?"
"Henry!"
"Eh, little Henry!"
Charlize looked pleasantly surprised.
Fabio's expression, however, was exaggeratedly joyful—he looked like he wanted to pounce in for a giant embrace.
Henry fortunately blocked the attack route with the paper bag in his arms. Fabio backed off—but still snagged a large tomato from Henry's bag, taking a bite as juice splattered everywhere.
Henry didn't mind. He pulled out two apples, handed one to old Gary, and tossed the other to Charlize.
"You two look like you've been running around all day. Did you get lunch?"
"Yes—we ate at Mrs. Salia's restaurant."
Henry switched to Italian:
"Ah, Salia's Italian cooking. I've wanted her pesto recipe for ages.
But every time I ask, she says she'd rather sleep with me than give up the recipe. I don't know whether I should feel flattered or disappointed."
Fabio burst out laughing:
"If she sleeps with you, she profits. If she gives the recipe, you profit. So tell me—what do you think a smart Italian woman will choose?"
Charlize, who had lived in Milan and worked under an Italian agency, wasn't unfamiliar with the language. She wasn't as fluent, but she understood most of it.
She refused to lose and replied in slightly clumsy Italian:
"Maybe you should just sleep with her a few times and trade for the pesto recipe."
Fabio roared with laughter. "Charlize has a point! Little Henry, have you considered it? I can negotiate with Salia for you."
Henry rewarded them all with a huge eye roll.
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